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It was a morning of ghosts. After the abandoned aerodrome at Daly Waters we passed Dunmarra, named after a man called Dan O’Mara who went missing here and was never found (the Aborigine trackers pronounced his name Dunmarra), then detoured three kilometres west through Newcastle Waters Station to the ghost town of Newcastle Waters.

Exploring the ghost town of Newcastle Waters

The Junction Hotel – so called because it sat on the junction of the Murranji, Barkly and North South overland stock routes – appeared in the early ’30s when Jack Sargent offered to wipe some of his debtors’ slates clean if they helped build him a pub out of scrap.

The walls of Jones’ Store, built from scrap and old bottles

Any good boss drover kept their camps “dry”, so the Junction did well. The most popular drinks were beer, rum and the “Rankine Bomb” – an 8 oz glass of straight rum, with a head of port.

Max Schober took over after Sargent and a guy called “Harry” worked the bar for him, coming up with the idea of storing a select amount of beer in wet straw to keep it cool. As people got too drunk to notice the difference, they were moved on to the warm beer, thus preserving the precious stock.

The last beer was drunk at the Junction in 1960, when Schober took his business, and the liquor license, to Elliott. The hotel briefly operated a bottle shop, but eventually closed in 1976.

Creeping around the abandoned buildings of the ghost town.

We wandered through the bar and around the simple accommodation buildings, built between 1935 and 1955. Vast networks of cobwebs hang from everywhere. Thick layers of dust sit on everything. Someone’s put an empty brown bottle on the bar, presumably in an attempt to make it feel like you’re “stepping back in time”. The resulting effect is an eerie one.

A lone beer bottle adorns the abandoned bar at the old Junction Hotel

The “Last Great Cattle Drive” left Newcastle Waters in 1988 for Longreach, Queensland. Since then Newcastle Waters has been practically deserted. What was once Jones’ Store, built in 1934, has been turned into a kind of ghost museum.

Ghost museum: This fella scared the crap out of me!

We fuelled up in “dodgy” Elliott (population: 350-ish) surrounded as it is by Abroiginal communities and outstations, then made it to Renner Springs Desert Inn roadhouse, 100 kilometres from Elliott and another 250 North of Tennant Creek – in other words, in the middle of nowhere – to visit our friend Alix, who was working behind the bar and let us camp free.

God, I wish this was a real drink!

We ate parmies and drank and wrote our journals while we waited for her to finish. Two mutual friends, Aliza and Jon, had once left a hat in here and Alix had been looking for it ever since she arrived. I looked up at the hats that lined the ceilings and walls. A conservative estimate suggested at least a thousand hats.

“923, last time they counted.”

I was allowed to write this, by the way. It’s encouraged.

Okay, I thought as I tried to think up the most methodical approach. This is gonna be tough.

I started in one corner and began thumbing through the hats, but after about ten, there it was, in my hand, unmistakably theirs!

“How the hell did you do that?”

Finding our friends’ hat at Renner Springs roadhouse

Alix finished at 11, at which point we cracked out the beers, drank more, chatted. Alix is one of those great, genuine people that you can’t help but like. Then somebody brought out weed, peacocks and a dog called “Butternut” wandered around us, I turned ghostly pale and passed out, while the others burst out laughing.

Selfie with Alix in Renner

I somehow stumbled back to the van.

…

There was no sign of Alix when we got up (she’s not a morning person either) which was probably for the best since we were caped in sweat and looked like shit. We showered, ate, chatted to a yardie, then used the WiFi password Alix had given us to send her a goodbye message.

The Tanami Desert on our right, the Barkly Tableland to the left, the Tropical North disappeared behind us and the quintessential red-earth Outback stretched out ahead.

Where almost all of us are from, there’s the town/city and there’s the country, with its fields, hedges or fences or walls, planted crops or mowed grass or cows or sheep or whatever, and all these things we call “natural”, but out here, in the absence of those things, you realise that they are far from natural. They are all signs of human presence. Here the occasional roadhouse and even the road itself are but specks in the desert, hemmed in by the encroaching wilderness. Really this land is a raw and wild one, and there are nowhere near enough people passing through to tame it.

We passed Threeways, where the Barkly Highway – the only sealed road from Queensland to the Territory – meets the Stuart; Attack Creek, where Stuart was turned around by the “hostile” Warumungu; and fuelled up in Tennant Creek, the only sizeable settlement (population: 3000-ish) between Katherine and Alice.

Wind pump sunset at Bonney Well Rest Area

We camped 87 kilometres south at Bonney Well rest area, with bore water for cooking pasta and a cup of tea under the great arc of white-gold-dust that is our galaxy, the Milky Way.

As we lie awake in the van, road trains – the only vehicle that can travel at night without fear of ‘roos and wandering stock – thunder by in the night, all lit up magical like the Coca-Cola advert.

…

Australians, on a global scale, are an early-rising lot, so we had the place to ourselves when, at 7.20 am, I climbed out, pulling on my jeans, desperate for a piss.

We cooked and ate oats with jam and full-fat milk under the shade of a tree, then, when the sun came over, caught a bit of a tan then laid in bed for a while, door open, breeze blowing through, looking out across the barren, rocky, red dusty landscaping with nowhere in particular to go.

Some Italian guys pulled up with a radiator leak, but other than showing them where the water was, there wasn’t much we could do.

Stumbling upon the “Devil’s Marbles”!

Later we stumbled upon Karlu Karlu (the Devil’s Marbles) – an area of granite boulders in a sea of sandstone, believed to have been created by Arranji, the Devil Man, when he passed through this way.

“This is the Devil’s country; he’s even emptied his bag of marbles around the place!”

- John Ross, of the Overland Telegraph Line expedition

The Devil playing with his “Marbles”

The “Marbles” lie at the confluence and traditional meeting place of four Aboriginal language groups (Warumungu, Kaytetye, Warlpiri and Alyawarre) all of whom know the area as Karlu Karlu. After a centuries-long struggle – involving massacres, the unwitting removal of a sacred boulder and, more recently, lengthy legal battles – the four groups now share ownership of the land, which they lease to the Northern Territory government and help to manage.

Expanding in the heat and contracting at night every 24 hours proves too much for some boulders.

As with a lot of Aboriginal stories, many of those surrounding this place cannot be told to non-Aborigines (a little racist, I think) but we do know that they believe in “secret people” who live in caves beneath the boulders, are “kind” and playful, but “can make you mad…change you into one of them…say ‘Follow me’, and you can’t go back.” The traditional owners would conduct a ceremony and song to find children who were lost here, but thanks to the effects of colonisation:

“We’ve lost that song now. We’ve got no song to bring children back.”

- A Senior Traditional Owner

Wycliffe Well: UFO capital of Australia!

Further along the road is Wycliffe Well, a roadhouse and caravan park that claims to be “the UFO capital of Australia”. We got out and walked around amidst staring cows and emus and a distinct lack of people. (All abducted by aliens?) It’s a very strange place, covered in murals depicting extra-terrestrials taking part in otherwise typical Outback activities.

UFOs feature in otherwise typical Outback scenes.

Next stop was the Barrow Creek Hotel, another “eccentric” Outback watering hole in the vein of the historic Larrimah Wayside Inn and Daly Waters pubs. The only customers were half-a-dozen Aboriginal guys sat drinking outside. Inside, the walls were plastered with bank notes and so on – a nod to the not-so-distant days when travelling shearers would leave money behind the bar to ensure a drink or few on their return. In fact, in rural Australia it’s still pretty common to leave your money on the bar unattended while you go for a smoke-o or a piss or whatever, safe in the knowledge that it’ll all still be there when you get back.

Bank notes plaster the walls of the “eccentric” Barrow Creek pub

Just next to the pub is the old, stone Barrow Creek Telegraph Station – one of, I think, only four or five still in existence – built in 1872, so it’s worth the stop. (More ghosts.)

We fuelled up again at the Ti Tree roadhouse (and bar) then not much further on spotted a sign that advertised free mango wine (and ice-cream) tastings at some place called the Red Centre Farm.

“Stop the car!”

“Shatto Mango: A tin shed in the bush, not a castle in France”

We really were in the “Red Centre” now. The red earth was redder than ever, and out of it grew field after field of mangoes. It was scorching and dry as we stepped out and approached the little farm shop, which sold out of a walk-in “cool room” vegetables, bread and other basic groceries that seemed to come from Coles in Alice.

I’d never heard of mango wine before, so was duly intrigued.

Tim presents the range of mango wine on offer at the Red Centre Farm

A dreadlocked German kid called Tim locked up the store and led us round to a little tasting area out the back. A couple of German girls arrived, and then an English couple – Andy and Sheila Graham, who’d travelled overland from the UK to Singapore and now around Australia – and so we all did the tastings together (except Andy, who was driving). We tried the five drinks on offer:

Name

Description

Verdict

Mango Magic

A white wine made with mangoes

Not good

Mango Mist

A sparkling white wine made with mangoes

Very nice. Sheila’s preference.

Mango Moonshine

A fortified wine made with mangoes

My preference, as a passionate lover of both sherry and mangoes. Bought two bottles. Comes with Mango Moonshine cheesecake recipe.

Red Centre Red

A standard red wine

Not good. Pretty sure it’s too dry for grapes out here.

Territory Tawny

A Tawny (now that Australia have stopped using the term Port, a demarcated product of Portugal)

Above average. A good Australian Tawny. Nutty.

Me, Ruth & Sheila Graham assess the complexities of fine mango wine

Afterwards we all had a good old chat, then the girls set off in the beat-up but fully-stocked, old car for a 4WD track that would take them all the way into Western Australia and on to Perth, where they offered us a place to stay. Andy and Sheila got back on the road to see their journey through to Sydney. (Only after their return to the UK did I find out that Andy had known he had a tumour in his head since Singapore, and yet had chosen to continue travelling, despite the pain.)

Time for the Drinking Traveller to “go walkabout”. The road became less and less familiar as we passed Jabiru and the turn offs for Nourlangie, Maguk, Gunlom, etc…until soon everything was new again.

Bras adorn the bar at the Daly Waters pub, while a “thong tree” grows in the garden.

Passing through the Kakadu National Park gates, we realised for the first time that we hadn’t left the park once in the three and a half months we’d been working there. Not even back to Darwin, a mere 210 kilometres away. I supposed this is what it’s like to “settle down”. For me, a guy who rarely spends more than two nights in the same city – let alone a “town” of population: 20 – this was a big deal.

But the reasons are simple:

Kakadu’s huge.

We worked a lot.

We got all our meals included.

I loved it there.

At the end of the Kakadu Highway, we turned left on the Stuart Highway and didn’t give another thought to the crappy old gold-rush town of Pine Creek.

It’s gonna be a long drive…

The funniest part is that, if you were to give someone directions to Alice from here, they would go: “Keep going straight. You can’t miss it.” You won’t even have to stop at a traffic light, because there aren’t any.

At this point we hadn’t discovered our van had air-con, so drove with the windows down – the forty degree air spanking us round the face at 100 kilometres an hour, like putting your head in a fan-assisted oven…only “spankier”… If it weren’t for two things – traffic and heat – I could drive forever. (Coomer can testify to this, as I once rode for 16 hours straight from somewhere in the Quebecois wilderness to his hotel door in a Chicago suburb, only getting off my bike to pay for fuel.) While there’s no traffic on the Stuart Highway (unless you count the occasional “road-train” – up to four trailers pulled by a single truck), there is plenty of heat, so we switched drivers every couple of hours.

We crossed the Katherine River (which actually had water in it!) ate sandwiches and assorted melon slices, which, despite having been in our cooler, were in a sorry state, then passed through Mataranka (population: 250-ish), which if you’re interested in you can read We of the Never Never by Jeannie Gunn, because that’s the one thing that’s ever happened there.

Bitter Springs

Stripping down and drifting at Bitter Springs

Here we turned left on Martin Road, just a kilometre or two north of town, into Elsey National Park (free entry) and stopped at Bitter Springs (“Koran” in Mangarayi, the local Aboriginal language with 12 speakers), which stinks but is absolutely perfect after a long, hot drive.

Mataranka thermal pool

Mataranka Thermal Pool

1.5 kms south of town there’s another turn off, to another excuse to take off your clothes and drift along at an idyllic and consistent 34 degrees: the Mataranka thermal pool, fed by Rainbow Spring and which is even more “perfect” than Bitter (because it’s pristine…and doesn’t stink). Here you also have the Mataranka Homestead (a replica of the Elsey Homestead built for the movie adaptation of the aforementioned novel) and bush walks to the Waterhouse River and a swimming hole called Stevie’s Hole.

Ruth at the pristine Mataranka thermal pool

The Waterhouse River at Mataranka thermal pool in Elsey National Park

Rainbow Spring: source of the Mataranka thermal pools

Larrimah Wayside Inn Outback Pub

Another couple of hours and you come to the Larrimah Hotel (AKA: the Larrimah Wayside Inn) – an Outback pub that rivals Daly Waters for quirky eccentricities. You are greeted by a giant Pink Panther smoking a cigar next to an even bigger bottle of NT Draught (as far as I can tell, the Territory’s only beer – extinct but iconic – served in the 2.25 litre “Darwin stubby”) while another Pink Panther flies a glider overhead. The whole place is painted pink.

The Larrimah Hotel & Wayside Inn

Stepping inside the Larrimah Hotel, Pub & Wayside Inn

We wandered around a kind of zoo out back, complete with crocodiles, shit-loads of brightly-coloured birds and even a wallaby who stops by of his own volition.

We met this little fella at Larrimah, which means “meeting place” in Yangaman.

I picked up a copy of Peter Camenzind at the book exchange, left some Rimbaud.

Making friends with the locals at the Larrimah Wayside Inn

Back on the road, signs warned of kangaroos. As did the increasingly frequent carcasses. I’ve never seen so much mangled, rotting flesh draped with blackened, bloodied fur. The termite hills were dressed in T-shirts. The trees seemed to grow shorter, giving way to patches of spinifex and mitchell grass.

As the sun sank toward the horizon I turned and watched as a seemingly endless herd of cattle were driven alongside us, kicking up around themselves a storm of dust that lit up a blood, gold haze in the setting sunlight. It was one of the most incredible scenes I’ve ever seen.

Daly Waters Pub

With darkness falling fast, cattle in the road and wallabies threatening to join them at the last moment, we decided to pull in at the Daly Waters pub, about three kilometres down a sealed side road. Our fears were confirmed when four wallabies jumped out in front of the car. Luckily I missed them all.

Arriving at Daly Waters historic Outback pub!

Normally I never pay for camping, but it was our first night on the road, and exceptions have to be made for such an iconic institution.

“The Reel…Oztralia!”

The “decor” at the Daly Waters pub is made up of mad, rusty, rustic things – those strange things that somehow find their way out to a place like this but never leave: rego and “ROAD TRAIN” plates adorn the simple tin walls, old pastoral farming equipment lays scattered about and a well-stomped stage stands testament to the nightly, free live music that makes the pub so famous (in the Dry season). The bar is decked out with embroidered patches, bank notes, passport photos and all the other things travellers leave in places in the hope that they’ll be remembered forever…even bras.

Rego plates adorn the tin walls.

Friendly Irish staff laid some “bush hospitality” on us, while genuine guys in plaid shirts and ‘roo leather cowboy hats stood at the bar eating “beef and barra” and steak dinners like a scene out of Crocodile Dundee (who I realise I’ve mentioned in pretty much every Australian-related post to date). There’s also a thong tree (thongs are flip-flops; sandals; jandals…sadly) and the toilets are bonafied Outback dunnies.

Like a scene out of the Walkabout Creek Hotel in Crocodile Dundee

Hot, dusty and tired, we slumped down with a couple of schooners and what has to be the biggest and best pub grub in Australia. (Meals are served from 7 am to 8.30 pm and even include a free, all-you-can-eat salad bar.)

Drinking a schooner as the pub begins to liven up for the night…

Groups arrived. A Greyhound bus pulled up in the darkness outside. A couple of schooners later – the alcohol sucked straight through parched throat into the bloodstream and direct to the brain – we stumbled out, past some kind of helicopter on the roof, cheap old-school disco lights dancing on the dust.

Still in the Tropics, the nights are almost as hot as the days, so we threw open the back door, rigged up a giant mosquito net we’d had the foresight to acquire, and slept softly out in the open desert breeze, waking often to roll over and marvel at wallabies hopping around in the moonlight mere feet from the van and again when a pack of dingoes began to howl not far away in the mystical Australian night.

This is the Outback!

…

Of course we still had a few bites when we woke; also matching burnt elbows from leaning out the windows all day. We ate tinned spaghetti on untoasted bread with black tea and coffee for breakfast, then spent some time getting the van in order for our new life on the road.

On the way back from the shower I walked past the Aborigine cleaner taking a shit with the door open.

Stuart’s Tree

Just down the road from the Daly Waters pub is Stuart’s Tree. Though it’s really more of an unimpressive stump, Stuart’s Tree has (or was believed to have had) an “S” carved into it by the explorer, John McDouall Stuart, the first person to cross Australia overland from South to North and back again.

His route served as the basis for the Overland Telegraph Line, which in turn paved the way for the Stuart Highway – the road we were travelling down on and still the only road from Adelaide (well, Port Augusta) to Darwin. Relatively speaking, still not a lot of people have ever come this way.

Stuart’s discovery of fresh water at Daly Waters (he named the place, by the way) probably saved his life.

Daly Waters Historic Airfield

Also down the road from the pub is Australia’s first international airfield and the Northern Territory’s oldest aviation building – the Daly Waters aerodrome. Though abandoned since the end of the sixties, the airstrip, original Qantas hangar and other structures remain as they were (natural decay and a touch of looting excepted) and it’s generally accepted for visitors to go and have a poke around, despite a sign that warns that it’s an “active airstrip”.

Daly Waters historic aerodrome and runway

We strolled around, letting ourselves into old rooms made of crumbling ply wood, trying the taps, playing with the instrument boards, reading some plaques and photos which have been put up, walking the strange, desolate runway under the white-hot sun. The wreckage of a plane lies tangled in the dry, rustling grass and two kangaroos sheltered silhouetted in the shade of some old structure.

Wreckage of an old plane at Daly Waters historic, abandoned airfield

Daly Waters was the last watering hole on the Murranji track, also known as the “Ghost Road of the Drovers” and the most perilous of all the travelling stock routes that connect Australia from Western Australia to Queensland. The Daly Waters pub was originally opened as a drover’s store in 1930, but came into its own in 1938 when it got a license to serve alcohol to the crew and passengers from the airport. During World War Two, Daly Waters became one of the most important airbases in Australia…with the pub servicing the servicemen, of course.

Inside the aerodrome, left as it was in 1970

Also at Daly Waters, back on the highway, is the Hi-Way Inn. Though it lacks the character of the Daly Waters pub, it’s still a lonesome Outback roadhouse – something you’ll have to experience if making this trip. It occurred to me how strange it is that millions of people travel the USA in search of the open road peppered with old, independent diners, then complain when they only find McDonalds, while here in the Australian Outback is everything they’re looking for…

Living and working in Kakadu, I came to hear of Arnhem Land, an area of Aboriginal land larger than almost half of the world’s countries yet somehow hidden in a remote, isolated corner of Australia’s sparse Northern Territory. One of “the last true wildernesses” on earth, Arnhem Land is home to wild, empty beaches, pristine rivers and uninhabited tropical islands, not to mention thousands of kilometres of unspoilt rainforest, savannah and “stone country”. This is one of the few places in Australia where Aboriginal traditions and lifestyle live on.

Gunbalanya, otherwise known as Oenpelli

Across the Arnhem Land border is Gunbalanya (also known as “Oenpelli“, “Kunbarllanjnja” in Kunwinjku, and “Unbalanj” by the original Mengerrdji-speakers) and in Gunbalanya – officially a “dry” community – there is one bar: the Gunbalanya Sports & Social Club.

There are many local rumours surrounding this bar; rumours concerning the vast quantity of alcohol consumed and the crazy, dodgy situations that necessarily result. One story goes that a satellite picked up an enormous tin deposit in this spot, but when the mining company showed up, they found only a sea of discarded cans, built up over years, out the back of the pub. The cans have since been removed.

The day I heard about this place, open only four days a week, for limited hours, and selling only light to mid-strength beers by the can or stubby, it became my life’s goal to get there.

My only informant on the matter was Seb, who often drinks with Aboriginal friends and knows Arnhem Land from countless fishing trips, but he couldn’t understand why I wanted to go. Everyday in the kitchen we’d have the same discussion.

“It’s a shithole. There’s nothing there. Just drunks and petrol sniffers.” (Two teenagers died and a third got permanent brain damage back in 2006, despite unleaded fuel being banned in Arnhem Land.)

But being warned against going somewhere is nothing new to me. I had the same thing when I insisted on crossing into Mexico at a time when the US media were going nuts with the Mexican drug war.

“I like shitholes. You’ll just have to take my word for it…If you see my blog, you’ll understand why I have to go.”

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” (I like to think this phrase is also true of tourist destinations.)

“I don’t even think you’ll be able to get a drink there. You’re not a member of the community and they’re pretty strict now on who they serve.”

Signing in as an “International Visitor” at the JS

The drink situation around here is very serious.

At the JS (Jabiru Sports & Social Club) you have to register as an “International Visitor” before you can be served at the bar.

The Kakadu Lodge (also in Jabiru) issue an “Alcohol Card” to their guests wishing to use their bar.

One of the first things I noticed about the supermarket in Jabiru was that there’s no bottle shop.

The traditional owners of sites such as Ubirr request that no alcohol be consumed.

Even the festivals are “dry”, as I found out when we went to Mahbilil Festival.

Alcohol cards issued for the bar at the Kakadu Lodge

More on the “Aboriginal drink problem” later.

Seb gradually warmed to the idea, even if he did think I was an idiot. One drunken night he even almost signed himself up to take me there…but of course later came to his senses. Anyway, without his advice – such as to drop plenty of psi out of our tyres – I might never have made it.

I had many obstacles to face:

The only road into West Arnhem Land is heavily corrugated, unsealed and 4WD-only recommended. Our bakery van is definitely not 4WD, and Seb had already warned us, “in the Territory, if it doesn’t say it’s sealed, don’t risk it.”

This includes driving through the East Alligator, a major tidal river (twice) only possible for a brief window every twelve hours.

As I’ve said, the bar is only open four days a week, for limited hours. (Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday & Saturday evenings from 6pm, I believe.)

Entry into Arnhem Land is restricted and a permit is required from the Northern Land Council (NLC), who will pretty much only issue one for visits to the Injalak Arts Centre. Somehow I didn’t think they would take kindly to my true intentions. I was torn: go without a permit or lie to get one.

And, perhaps most importantly, I would have to get a day off work – no easy feat in itself.

To complicate matters even further, the van got a flat just heading into Jabiru, at which point we discovered that some idiot had put sports wheels on it. The one tyre shop in Jabiru refused to tyre it up (Tim and Sarah had had an over-optimistic crack at the Gibb River Road – famous for its wild Outback terrain – and so the rims would most likely never hold air again) so we had to somehow procure a set of original steel rims from Darwin and the van was sat up on bricks for a few weeks.

Being not a sexy, single young woman, getting anyone to take me in their 4WD proved impossible. (Not that I’m bitter or anything.)

I called the NLC to ask about a permit.

“Do you have a car?

“Er…yeah, but I’ll probably just hitch.”

“Sorry, I won’t give you a permit for that.”

“Oh, okay – ”

“You can’t do that in the communities.”

“Oh, okay.” (I said I’d call back when my car was fixed.)

A select few tour operators, either indigenous-run or who’ve gained the trust of the traditional owners, are allowed to bring in visitors, but firstly these tours start at about $250 and secondly Ruth, who worked on reception and had managed to get a free tour, reported back to me that there would definitely be no opportunity to “slip away for a bit” and that any attempt to convince the driver to make a detour via the bar would no doubt be met with a “no”.

Injalak Arts: Just a typical artist’s studio? Photo by Ruth.

Screen-printing designs at Injalak Arts Centre. Photo by Ruth.

Just a baby in a tub. Photo by Ruth.

There are also certain special events, such as an “open day” once a year (in July, I think) when you don’t need a permit, but it seems I’d missed all these.

Oh and if that wasn’t enough, the Wet season started, so, after three months without a single drop of rain (honestly!) the roads were now partially flooded.

(I have to confess, I did get one opening, when the tides, my day off, the bar opening times, NLC opening times, everything came together, Seb came to me and said, “we just got back from Arnhem Land and the road’s been graded…It’s in the best state I’ve seen it in two years. I think you’ll even be able to do it in your van.” And then I went and got drunk in the bar and slept through what looked like my only chance to go to the Gunbalanya Sports & Social Club.

“Such is life.” – Ned Kelly

But if you’re determined enough to do something, you’ll do it (unless that something is to eat a gold brick). Another opportunity presented itself and this time, rain or no rain, I wasn’t going to waste it.

It was Friday, 7th November. The NLC was open until 4.15 pm, Injalak until 5 pm and the Gunbalanya Sports & Social Club that night. According to Willy Weather there would be a record low tide of 0.6 metres at precisely 5:37 pm, which would give me a two hour window either side of that to get in, do my thing and get out again.

Incidentally it was also a full moon, 35 degrees (25 at night) and with a 60% chance of rain, which would almost certainly see me stranded on the other side of “the East” until morning. I’ll take those odds! The sun would set at 6:40 pm.

In a strange coincidence, the NLC happened to be holding a conference at our resort at the time, so I’d managed to procure a copy of the conference paperwork and an NLC keyring, which I planned to flash around later if any trouble were to arise. (You never know.) Just as I was about to leave, as an afterthought, I realised that if all the NLC staff were here, there might be nobody in their office. I called them.

They were there, but about to close.

Ruth managed to get the arvo off too, so we jumped in the van (with its fresh new set of wheels and heavy-duty, eight-ply tyres) and raced off to get our permits.

Modern Aboriginal street art in Jabiru

I would give you directions to the NLC, but everything in Jabiru is in the same place. It’s attached to the library, if that’s any help.

The buildings in Jabiru are smeared with hand prints. Black means somebody died and the building is not to be disturbed. I can only assume this one means, “open for business”.

All the buildings in these blocks are smeared once around with hand prints, an act that anywhere else in the world would be considered vandalism, but here, I assume, means “open for business”. When somebody dies, black hand prints are used and the area is off limits. Seb had told me about the lonesome, abandoned houses along the tracks of Arnhem Land, smeared with black; places you cannot go.

Some things you should know about Aboriginal etiquette in these parts:

Don’t reference, or display images of the dead.

They’re not big fans of intense eye contact.

They don’t use greetings when they meet like we Westerners do.

They don’t use names in the same way either. Rather “kinship terms” such as “brother”.

Don’t take photos without permission.

Boh boh (pronounced “bor bor”) is “goodbye”.

The permit is $16 and you need your vehicle rego (registration; number plate; license plate) number (I had to go back out to the car park to get mine) and they give you a copy of the tide times and a sheet of information that says in big, bold capitals:

THIS PERMIT ALLOWS THE HOLDER TO TRAVEL DIRECTLY TO INJALAK ART CENTRE FROM CAHILLS CROSSING.

…

TRESPASSING ON ABORIGINAL LAND WITHOUT A PERMIT IS ILLEGAL

DO NOT STOP THE CAR AT ANY POINT DURING YOUR ROAD TRANSIT TO INJALAK

DO NOT TRAVEL DOWN ANY OTHER ROAD APART FROM THE TRANSIT ROAD TO INJALAK

DO NOT STOP IN THE GUNBALANYA/OENPELLI COMMUNITY, GO DIRECTLY TO INJALAK

The permit itself starts like this:

PERMIT TO ENTER & REMAIN ON ABORIGINAL LAND OR SEAS ADJOINING ABORIGINAL LAND

“The person named below is authorised to enter Aboriginal land only to visit Injalak Arts and Craft Centre and partake in tourism activities…”

…and among a long list of “TERMS AND CONDITIONS” are:

“1. This permit does not authorise entry into any buildings, dwellings, living areas or camps.

2. Permit holders must travel directly to their destination and not divert. No new tracks are to be created.

4. This permit is valid only for the purposes stated herein.

5. The carrying and consumption of alcohol is prohibited under part VII of the Liquor Act.

14. Motor vehicles and boats must be in a satisfactory condition and reasonable spare parts, food, fuel and water must be carried.

16. The permit holder enters Aboriginal land at his or her own risk…in respect of death…”

…etc, etc.

To anyone who thinks it was wrong of me to break the conditions of an official document, which I signed, I have this question for you to ponder: did any problems ever get solved by hiding them under a blanket?

Sometimes (actually, quite often, in my experience) an official body or authority can be wrong while an individual is right.

From Jabiru, you head back a couple of kms on the Arnhem Highway, then turn right on the Oenpelli Highway for 40 kms (this part described in my post on Ubirr). At Cahill’s Crossing – end of the road for my Ubirr story, but just the beginning for this one – you have to drive through the East Alligator River. “Whatever you do,” said Seb, “don’t stop. Just keep driving until you hit the other side.”

Driving through the East Alligator River!

I ploughed through, throwing up waves like I’ve never seen, too focused to look out for the crocodiles that we knew were in the water.

Cahill’s Crossing from the Arnhem Land side – Aboriginal land!

A permit is required to enter Arnhem Land Aboriginal land.

Once on the Arnhem Land side, it’s a 15 km stretch of unsealed road that roughly follows the dramatic Arnhem Land escarpment through flood plains and tropical monsoon forest.

“This is the beautiful part.” She told me in the NLC office, “but don’t stop. Our rangers drive up and down that road every day and they will dob you in.” The greens and blues of the floodplains and billabongs, lush with the recent rain, made quite a sight blended with the deep red earth…

The road follows the Arnhem Land escarpment on the one side…

…and lush, green floodplains on the other.

…and the occasional burnt-out car. Apparently the local Aborigines get free cars from the government – a bone of contention with everyone else, as you can imagine. Arnhem Land’s remoteness makes a vehicle almost a basic necessity of life out here, but the abandoned cars at the roadside prove that people aren’t likely to value something they got for nothing.

Burnt-out and abandoned cars are a common sight on the Oenpelli road.

By the way, on a complete side note, Arnhem Land is the birthplace of the didgeridoo, where it is known by many names (none of them even close to “didgeridoo”) including mako in Kunwinjku and yidaki in Yolngu…at least up until 2011, when some guy with a name sounding something like Yidaki died and they switched to mandapul.

The road is unsealed, heavily corrugated and the Wet season has just announced itself.

We crawled along at 20 kmph, following the tracks of other (probably better suited) vehicles, shuddering over constant deep corrugations in the dirt, over pot-holes, through “puddles” almost as deep as the river, some spanning the entire road.

Namarrgon, the Lightning Man, prepares to sing.

When, after 15 kms, you see the sign for the Oenpelli community and the road briefly becomes sealed again, take a left and follow the road round for 3 kms, past the only four places in town you’re allowed to go: police station, park, servo and shop. At the T-junction, swing a right and park up outside Injalak Arts.

Injalak Arts is a non-profit and one of only three Aboriginal-owned commercial enterprises in the community. (The others being an abattoir and of course the Gunbalanya Social, which I still had no idea how to get to.)

Invited into the screen-printing workshop at Injalak Art Centre.

We went inside and were greeted by Sita, a Melbourne art student on an internship here. She showed us around and introduced us to some of the artists. “We have over 300 members of the community who actively contribute art. Some work here on site. Others bring it in from their outstations.” (After all, if you don’t work in the abattoir or the club, how else are you supposed to make money here?) Some men were painting, some women screen-printing and an old lady outside weaving baskets from jim jim (pandanus) leaves. We were given a little piece of it.

Woman weaving jim jim leaves. Photo by Ruth.

“This one’s a freebie, is it?”

Looking out across the river behind the Art Centre

From the back of the Injalak centre is an unimpeded view of the Adjumarrllal Billabong and, behind it, Injalak Hill, after which the centre is named. They also run tours up to Injalak Hill, which is home to some of the most impressive rock art galleries in the world.

Rock art gallery at Injalak Hill. Photo by Ruth.

Back in the shop, I threw a coin in the “camp dogs fund” – set up to feed the stray dogs of the community – for once a cause I can get on board with – found out from a leaflet that if I wanted to I could learn Kunwinjku or Gundjeihmi for free, online at bininjgunwok.org.au (and also here) and we poked around at Cambodian-made clothes and art that, like original art the world over, only those few with money to throw away can afford. Luckily for Gunbalanya, those few with money to throw away are also partial to indigenous tours.

A sign on the wall said “CDEP Work Rules…11. No grog, no gunja.”

Sita showed us the Injalak Arts Facebook page and some photos she’d taken for the centre’s 25th birthday party, which we’d missed by just a few days.

I decided to broach the subject of the bar. She’d never been, but it turned out she was planning to go that evening, to celebrate one of her last nights in Arnhem Land with all the friends she’d made. She gave us directions: back though town, right after the police station, walk a bit, second left and follow it ’til it ends at the Club.

“Cool. Maybe we’ll see you there…”

Injalak Hill from Gunbalanya

We had some time to kill, so we ambled along the banks of the billabong, though not too close (crocs) and played on the swings in the park amidst the iced-coffee cartons…

Who are you trying to kid, Gunbalanya? Photo by Ruth.

…and the graffiti that blends ten thousand years of artistic tradition with…well, cocks.

“11. All rubbish must be disposed of properly or removed from Aboriginal land.”

We did our bit.

Someone once told me that Aboriginal attitudes to litter tend to be something along the lines of: “White fellas brought litter to Australia. White fellas can pick it up.”

I think that might just be the dumbest opinion represented in this post, which considering most of the others are mine, is really saying something.

Swinging in Gunbalanya.

As it neared 6 o’clock we got on our feet again, passed the school and a truck that seems to double as a police station, and now we were officially out of the bounds of our permit. The occasional camp dog eyed us from the dust. It was hard to believe you were in Australia, a “developed” country. I was reminded of the time I was invited onto the Montreal Lake First Nations (Native American) reservation in Saskatchewan, Canada.

The “Police Station” in Gunbalanya

We soon became aware that we were part of a mass march or procession, the numbers growing exponentially with every street that converged onto ours. People were crossing fields and empty lots, appearing from the spaces between houses, all headed in the same direction. It was clear we weren’t going to need those directions from here. Everyone was going to the Social Club.

Pet dogs and…a wallaby!

According to this article in the Sydney Morning Herald (the only other account I could find of someone having been to the Gunbalanya Social Club) this migration across town is made by 300 to 600 people a night. Remember the population of Gunbalanya? That’s between a quarter and half of it!

The much anticipated Gunbalanya Sports and Social Club!

The outside of the Club wasn’t much to look at, but once signed in (which went down as smoothly as could be hoped for), it stood in stark contrast to the rest of the community. Shady palms lined green, well-mowed lawns. The new community swimming pool next door made sure everyone knew who paid for it; the Gunbalanya Sports & Social Club, of course.

Sunset, palms and green grass at the Gunbalanya Social beer garden

People came to watch the national news on big plasma screen TVs as it did its bit to spread racism and hatred throughout the country. ISIS or whatever they’re called were killing some hostages or something somewhere in the world, if I rightly recall.

The locals come to watch the national news on the big screen.

There was one other table of whiteys and everyone else was Aborigine, as you might expect.

Sipping on a hard-earned, ice-cold can of VB Gold.

We ordered a couple of cans of VB Gold without difficulty, drank those hard-earned, ice-cold bad-boys down, perhaps a little too quickly, and got in another, which we sipped and savoured out in the beer garden massaged by the long rays of the setting sun.

Drinking a mid-strength beer at the Gunbalanya Sports & Social Club. Mission accomplished.

The guys

We explored a little, took some photos and soon people were chatting to us, taking photos with us…

Ruth getting friendly with the locals.

“No, you can’t take my photograph.” “Oh, I’m sorry, you believe it will take your spirit away.” “No, you got the lens-cap on it.” – Crocodile Dundee

Anyway, the sun set and the storm clouds gathered and it was time to say, “boh boh.”

“Boh boh!”

We raced the storm, driving through the river in complete darkness and running into a torrential downpour not ten minutes later.

Sunset in Arnhem Land. Time to hit the road again.

Success!

It may seem like a long way to go and a lot to go through for a couple of beers, but you know what they say, it’s about the journey, really.

Kakadu bound!

When we got back, Seb, Maike, Pottsy, Azza, Rachael, Rod and the whole gang were sheltering in the barbecue area, already well on their way. Fast-forward to 4 am. I’m drinking with Dean. Seb’s just gone to the ranger station to drop off an Aboriginal friend, whose name I forget, but who Azza insisted “looks like a Jimmy”.

Azza and Rachael, pissed at the barbecue

We’re in the middle of some deep, philosophical discussion when Dean says, “yep, that’s definitely a snake by your leg, bro,” and then, as I’m slowly drawing my legs up onto the bench, “don’t worry, it’s just a python”.

Only accessible in the Dry (season) and by four-wheel-drive (well, in theory), Maguk is a verdant gorge complete with tumbling waterfall, deep blue plunge-pool with crystal clear water teaming with fish, and even a “secret” path leading to a series of sparkling swimming holes hidden behind the top of the falls.

(“Secret” in the sense that it’s not advertised, signposted or mentioned in any brochures or guidebooks. Not secret in as far as almost every local knows about it and is quite happy to spill the beans.)

Despite being in a national park frequented by tourists, Maguk has somehow (perhaps due to its relatively inaccessible location) escaped the larger visitor numbers that you might expect at nearby Gunlom.

Gunlom. (Photo from http://tourismtopend.com.au/.)

With all the things to do in Kakadu, everyone has their favourite spot in the park. This is mine (and Azza’s, who recommended it to us). In a place so dry, it’s no wonder all the best attractions are water-based. (Jim Jim Falls, Twin Falls, Maguk, Gunlom, Mamukala, Yellow Water, the billabongs, wetlands, rivers…I rest my case.)

I won’t bore you with words when the photos speak for themselves. (In the travel blogging industry, we like to call this a “photo essay”, by which we mean we’re too lazy/busy to write and we know you’re too lazy/busy to read it.)

Driving the corrugated, unsealed, 4WD-only road to Maguk in our van

Having just had a new set of wheel rims and eight-ply tyres, we decided to take on the unsealed, 4WD-only road to Maguk in our (non-4WD) van. The corrugations, though they may not look like much to the uninitiated, gave us one hell of a beating. Seb had told me that if you go over 100 kilometres an hour, you fly across the top of the corrugations and barely feel them. This is true, but, as I got over fifty, I went into a slide, realising I had almost no control over the vehicle and almost veering off the road.

The only other way to do it was to crawl along at less than twenty.

What’s only a 10 km turnoff seemed to take an agonisingly long time.

Luckily for us, the part that makes the road only suitable for 4WDs – an area of deep sand that we would’ve had to floor it through if there was any hope of not getting stuck – had miraculously been filled in with gravel, so we made it through without incident.

We parked up and followed the rest of the trail – a 2km return walk – on foot.

The deep turquoise waters as we approach Maguk

“…crocodiles are known to enter this area undetected at any time.”

Later we would remember (and of course ignore) this.

A path, marked only by the occasional arrow in the rock, lead through “monsoon forest”, over jagged rocks, through the river (which, I remind you, may have crocs in) and along its sandy, sometimes even beach-like banks.

Crossing the river and following it to the Gorge

As you work your way upriver, beautiful pools reflect the blue of the sky and the vibrant greens of this strange oasis and you’ll want to jump in and start swimming already, but keep going and you’ll soon be blown away by Maguk itself.

First glimpse of Maguk through the jim jim (water pandanus)

Maguk! (Otherwise known as Barramundi Gorge.)

I laid down on the stone slab at the water’s edge and marveled at the blue-green reflection of the gorge shimmering simultaneously along with the fish that danced in the deep blue beneath the surface.

The reflection and deep blue, clear waters of Maguk

Photos just didn’t capture it. I had to go video.

We swam out over the deep plunge pool (in which many Taiwanese people have drowned for some reason) – the scene (almost) too perfect to be thinking about crocodiles – to hidden ledges, through vast shadows, into the sparkling sunlight and even beneath the waterfall itself.

While we were out there a local guide appeared. We told him we’d heard about a secret path that leads to the top of the waterfall and a series of swimming holes in the rock and asked him if he knew where it was. Of course he did. “You head back along the river until you see the first place to cross without getting wet. On the other side, keep walking straight, with the river to your back, and eventually, after 100 metres or so, you’ll cross a path. Turn right and just keep following it…”

Then he dove into the water and swam to a little nook in the rock that we hadn’t even noticed, just big enough to conceal him, and he was gone…

We followed his directions. The path he’d spoken of was barely distinguishable from its surroundings and at first I wasn’t sure if it was the right one…

A hidden, unmarked and barely distinguishable path leads to the “secret” swimming holes above the waterfall.

…but soon a couple of partial footprints instilled us with confidence, and it all came good in the end.

The path emerged from under the foliage and into the unforgiving heat of the sun. It wound around the edges of what felt like a hot, dusty canyon, then up over the crest and down again. Then we knew for sure we’d found the place.

The “secret” swimming holes at the top of Maguk

We climbed down the steep rockface to the gleaming pools.

A natural “infinity pool” at the top of the waterfall

The view from the top

The swimming holes

We clambered over the damp rock, these tiny black frogs jumping around all over us, and followed the course of the water even further, every step revealing a new series of pools.

Following the gorge even further…

…and riding the river back again!

Apparently the only way out of this one is to swim down a metre or two and through a tunnel…

Azza had told us about one pool that, once you get into it, the only way out is to swim down. So of course we stood on the rim and took photos.

Staring into the abyss…and seeing myself at the bottom.

I considered diving in, but couldn’t see this tunnel he’d mentioned. The blackness was impenetrable. (He later told us it’s a couple of metres down…)

Ruth’s arm always looks like that.

Relaxing at the top of the waterfall

Hours passed as we swam, dove, bathed and just relaxed and enjoyed the view from our very own, personal infinity pool atop the waterfall.

Maguk waterfall and plunge pool from above

Eventually the threat of imminent sunburn caused us to flee the scene, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the beauty of this place.

The van up on jacks, the wheels two-hundred kilometres away in Darwin.

I was naked (as usual) when Vero knocked. Rod had fixed his “car” and was going to Ubirr. Did we want to go?

We grabbed some sandwiches for the road, Rod fueled up on resort and we sped off through the parched landscape. The trees clung to the red earth, somehow adapted to half the year spent without rain, and the other half spent drowned in it. Termite hills as tall as me peppered the landscape, along with the occasional burnt out or abandoned car.

Rod’s car, next in line for a good burning.

We passed large patches of blackened, smouldering forest. At first we thought it as the work of a wild bushfire, but actually these were controlled burnings, practiced by the locals for many thousands of years. “Whitefellas” have taken this long to realise the value of the burning, but it is done when the temperature is at its coolest and helps prevent larger, more devastating bushfires, removes undergrowth and helps encourages new growth and wildlife to return to the area. The Aborigines see fire as a nature occurrence, not something to be afraid of, and part of their duty as stewards of the land.

Rod swung a left just before Jabiru and now this was all new territory for me. The Arnhem Land escarpment (of which Ubirr is an outlying piece) rose up on our right while sparse patches of water still clung to the floodplains and billabongs to our left. The grass seemed to glow as the sun shone through it like a thick crop of blonde hair on a warm summer’s evening.

We passed Merl campground and pulled up at Cahill’s Crossing. For many this is the end of the road. From here you need to drive across the East Alligator – a major tidal river – and need a permit to enter Arnhem Land, the Aboriginal land on the other side.

We were here because Vero – my unofficial Spanish tutor and general creator of mirth – had never seen a crocodile. (We had.) So the four of us stood on the banks and watched as crocodiles moved about on the river, appearing on the surface only briefly, before descending back beneath the water with the rest of their lot.

“Brave” fishermen fish from the Crossing…

Brave (stupid) fishermen-and-women stood on the rocks or in the shallows and fished from the Crossing, as the occasional Aboriginal car or four-wheel-drive or road-train ploughed across the river at medium tide.

Can you spot the Crocs™?

A road-train ploughs across the river at Cahill’s Crossing with ease.

Mosquitoes and flies buzzed all around, making their usual din. The flies here – march flies – bite and draw blood. Rod killed one just as it was in the process of lunching on his leg.

Everything in the Territory bites.

We stopped at the Border Store at Manbiyarra – a remote outstation beside the East Alligator river and Arnhem Land border, famous for its Thai food – for Vero to use the bathroom, but when she saw the state of the dunny (Outback toilet) she changed her mind and we were on the road again.

At Ubirr lies a rock art painting of the Rainbow Serpent – one of the oldest creator beings, known across much of Australia (locally as Almudj in Kunwinjku, Ngalyod in Gundjeihmi and Garranga’rreli in the no longer spoken language of Gagudju, from which “Kakadu” – the name of the Park – is derived) – who split and moved rock, creating rivers, wetlands and billabongs as she made her way through the land. (At Nourlangie, Christian the ranger told us of an ancient river – wider than any around today, that once ran through these lands, creating the Arnhem Land escarpment as its Eastern bank. Listening to this, I had to wonder; could this have been the Rainbow Serpent?)

On her travels the Rainbow Serpent passed through Ubirr, leaving the painting of herself, and crossed the East Alligator. She still rests somewhere deep in Arnhem Land, in a quiet waterhole, and, if disturbed, can cause floods and other natural disasters.

Ruth descends into the ancient shelter.

The rock was both shelter and canvas, for 15,000 years!

Rod led the way, scrambling up the rocks, past rock art galleries thousands of years old, one of the Aboriginal rangers giving a free talk, rock wallabies bouncing through the dusty spinifex. A one-kilometre walking trail leads into the incredible “stone country” landscape before you climb 250 metres up onto Ubirr Rock – the Nadab Lookout – arguably the most beautiful sunset spot in the park.

Mimi spirits: the first creation ancestors to paint on rock

Of all the things to do in Kakadu, the lookouts are my favourite: steeped in Aboriginal tradition, they give context and perspective to everything you see down on the ground. Up here you see the bigger picture of Kakadu National Park, and nowhere else is its raw, wild beauty more evident – especially at sunrise and sunset. (Nawurlandja Lookout at Nourlangie is another.)

Ubirr Rock: the Nadab Lookout!

The sun was getting low in the sky and we sat and watched as it shone through the long grass and sank slowly into its own reflection in the Nadab floodplain.

Ruth, Rod and Vero gazing out over the Nadab floodplain

Rod looked totally at peace in this backdrop.

“I could live out here,” he said. “In the bush, catching and cooking my own food, camping out under the stars…”

I nodded in agreement.

Me, Rod and Vero watching the sunset

Rod’s from “Bundy” (Bundaberg). After his “old lady shot through”, leaving him to raise his daughter as a single parent, and having never been in a plane, out of Australia, or even Queensland, he one day decided to get the most out of life, packed up and set off across the continent in his high-clearance four-wheel-drive, laden to the sky with camping and fishing gear, spare tyres and jerries, and picking up work as he went. You meet very few people in this world who understand the value of this short life, but Rod’s one of them.

Sunset over the Nadab floodplain

The sun set, as it has a way of doing – turning the sky and its reflection from blue to gold to red to black.

I’ve used the name “Nourlangie” in the title because otherwise almost no-one would know what I was talking about. The area mistakenly known as “Nourlangie” is actually made up of Burrunggui (the higher ground and Gunwarddehwarde Lookout) and Anbangbang (the lowlands and surroundings, home to the Anbangbang billabong and rock art gallery). Nearby is the Nawurlandja Lookout, of which “Nourlangie” was a corruption. I only say all this because, since the millennia-old names still survive, it would be really nice to go back to them (in my opinion, at least).

Ruth and Niina modelling the new “Shakerz Bakerz” van before heading for Nourlangie…

My first experience of traditional Aboriginal culture and gunbim (rock art), this region is one of, if not the most impressive collection of rock art in Australia and left me with a far deeper understanding of the land, the people and their history.

Care to dance?

From the Nourlangie car park a 1.5 kilometre circuit leads up through the ancient galleries, through a shelter that has been used for over 50,000 years. Due to its dry, covered location – a rare find in these parts – objects left behind over the centuries remain preserved and make up the shelter floor, making it possible to date its use.

Kangaroo – detail of a much larger piece

Aboriginals (in this region, at least) were traditionally a nomadic people. They had to be. The country and its food sources change completely from the Wet to the Dry, not to mention the myriad transitional sub-seasons in between. The bininj (Aboriginal people, of these parts) recognise six separate seasons. So there were no permanent settlements, but they often returned to the best spots – such as this one – year after year, generation after generation.

More rock art…

The rock was their canvas, various minerals (chosen for their vibrant colours: reds, yellows, oranges, blacks) were made into paint and, in this “oral tradition”, this “living culture”, the paintings were used to pass on stories, important lessons and pieces of knowledge – to teach, in other words. The painting itself is a reminder for the next generation to tell the story, and it is in the act of repainting in which the story is told. This is why painting over another artist’s work is not only acceptable, but encouraged (only by those who know and understand the story, of course) while to destroy or erase a piece of art is considered a serious offence.

Niina and Ruth at the gallery

Many methods have been used to date the various pieces of rock art, which range from 20,000 years old right up to 1986, making this one of the longest records of any culture in the world. The world has changed alot in that time and this can be seen documented in the paintings.

A Brief History of Aboriginal Rock Art in Kakadu

If you believe this part, Warramurrungundji (Earth Mother) created the Mimi spirits, the first creation ancestors to paint on rock, who, in turn, taught the Nayuhyunggi (first people) to do the same.

In the last ice age, the world was cooler and drier, the sea lower and the land larger. Australia and New Guinea were one continent, joined by land. At this time people were painting anatomically correct (naturalistic) portraits of animals, including depictions of now extinct animals.

A “dynamic style” develops, in which people are depicted running and spears appear in mid flight, along with their path and tradjectory.

From 15,000 to 6,000 years ago, the earth warmed up, the sea level rose and completely reshaped the landscape. (Bear in mind how many generations must have passed over this 9,000 year period. It wasn’t as sudden as history makes it sound.) Tribes were forced closer and closer together, creating conflicts over land and so on. From this period come what are probably the oldest depictions of human on human conflict, known as “conflict art“.

With all the new food sources came “x-ray style” art, in which animals (and later humans) are shown along with their internal organs, in increasing detail.

Yams appeared on the scene and so did “yam art” in which various yams as depicted, often attributed with human or animal features.

Eventually the flow of saltwater was restricted, forming freshwater floodplains. Magpie geese and other migratory birds began to make an appearance, along with the spears used to hunt them and objects made from their feathers.

About 300 years ago, Macassan traders showed up, shortly followed by the Europeans. Guns, knives, eerily accurate sailing ships, ladies’ gloves, men on horseback and a figure known as “bossman” all feature in “contact art“.

With the arrival of balanda (non-Aboriginals) the Aboriginal population of the Kakadu area dropped to 25% (some estimate as low as 4%).

In 1962, David Attenborough photographed the faded gallery at Nourlangie.

In 1964, Nayombolmi (“Barramundi Charlie”) returned to repaint the gallery and the evil spirit, Nabulwinjbulwinj before he died.

Nabulwinjbulwinj, an evil spirit who beats women to death with a yam and eats them…

The last known art in Kakadu National Park was done in 1986.

While the act of painting on rock here has now ceased, the traditions and styles live on in the form of tourist trinkets and modern Aboriginal art, painted on bark, paper, canvas, fabric, etc…

The trail continued up to the Gunwarddehwarde Lookout, presenting a panoramic view of the Park and the Arnhem Land escarpment.

View of the Arnhem Land escarpment from Gunwarddehwarde Lookout

You have to be careful not to take the turn off onto the grueling, twelve kilometre Barrk Walk, which leads up and down over jagged rocks, eventually passing the nearby Nanguluwurr Gallery (another major rock art site) before returning. (The Nanguluwurr Gallery can also by reached by an unsealed road and subsequent four kilometre return walk, which is signposted on the left before you reach Nourlangie.)

Next we headed to Anbangbang billabong, where we walked the 2.5 kilometre circuit around it and saw our first wallabies (thought they were kangaroos)…

Anbangbang Billabong

…and hoped we wouldn’t run into our first crocodiles.

Crocodiles move into the billabongs in the Wet, making swimming a bad idea in most of Kakadu.

The circuit, which can be done from both the Anbangbang Billabong car park and the Nawurlandja car park, has views of Nourlangie Rock (Burrunggui) towering over the wetlands. The Nawurlandja car park is also the start point of the steep-ish 600 metre return scramble up the rough rock surface of Nawurlandja Lookout.

It was getting late in the day and the sun was setting, glorious gold, behind the rock. We watched as shadow gradually enveloped the Kakadu landscape. Despite one or two other groups, a desolate silence descended over the scene – a distinct lack of human presence. It reminded me of that movie, Walkabout.

View of “Nourlangie Rock” (Burrunggui), the Arnhem Land escarpment and Koongarra from Nawurlandja Lookout

Coming back down we happened across a ranger talk and sat down to listen, during which I learnt much of the knowledge I’m now passing off as my own in this post.

Christian is one of the “whitefella” rangers in Kakadu, though, listening to him speak, you’d think he’d been raised Crocodile-Dundee-style by Aborigines. He’s an incredible speaker and, with long beard flailing, explained the six seasons and how the bininj read the land: the ground dries and cracks, small rodents return, to live in the cracks, snakes appear, to feed on the rodents…

He talked about Namarrgon, the “Lightning Man”, whose “song” is painted along the Arnhem Land escarpment on the far horizon and which, when compared to modern scientific readings, echoes the lightning storms that signal “the build-up” (to the Wet) almost perfectly.

Namarrgon (Lightning Man) and other characters

Finally, he told us about “Jeff” (Jeffrey Lee) – the only surviving member of the Djok clan, traditional owners of Koongarra (1228 hectares of abundant wildlife) – who, since he was a boy, has been turning down increasingly large sums (in the multi-millions) offered him by French energy giant, Areva, who would like to get their hands on the thousands of tonnes of uranium beneath his ancestral land – worth billions of dollars. He became famous when he left his homeland and travelled to Europe to make his case and appeal to UNESCO to defend his land. UNESCO eventually heard his plea and Koongarra was finally merged into Kakadu National Park.

Looking out over Koongarra, forever changed, we decided it was time for dinner, and set off again into the sunset.

You might think the last thing you’d want to be around is an estuarine (saltwater) crocodile – the largest and most dangerous crocodile in the world – yet we somehow found ourselves out on the water in a tinny, looking for them. As many adventures do, it all started in the bar…

This is actually a photo on the wall of the bar. Scroll down for my (infinitely less impressive) pics.

In case you don’t know, I’ve spent the last three and a half months living and working at a remote Outback hotel in Kakadu National Park, in a place called “South Alligator”, which consists only of the aforementioned hotel. There’s a bar (with staff discount) so I’m happy here, not to mention a pool and spa (hot tub; Jacuzzi), tennis courts, all meals included, rec’ room with ping pong table, pool tables, books, movies, a 3.6 kilometre billabong walk and plenty of barbeques, bonfires and even the occasional “Latin American night” to keep me occupied. Oh, and no phone signal.

Our home for the first two months. Photo by Sarah Froome (before we moved in, of course).

Anyway, Andy and Suzanne were behind the bar and we (me, Ruth, Seb and Azza) were on the other side of it, chatting to a couple from Devon who were touring the Territory in a camper.

Seb is a chef from Lancashire, but has somehow become more Territorian than half the locals. When asked why he travels, he’ll tell you “for the fish!” (in this case barramundi) and after travelling to some obscure places for that very reason, he finally found the place he was born to live: the Northern Territory. The day he found out he was being sponsored as an Australian resident, he went out and bought a boat.

The couple were getting filled in on all the things I’d learnt over the past weeks: that there are only two seasons here – Wet and Dry (unless you ask the bininj, in which case there are six – we moved from Wurrgeng to Gurrung into Gunumeleng), what it means to “go tropo”, that the NT is not a state, but a territory, that Darwin – its excuse for a capital – only got its first set of traffic lights in the last decade or so, and that anything goes here (at least as far as speeding, shooting and fighting are concerned…oh, and that Azza is from the “Beef Capital of ‘Straya”.

When the bar closed we got a carton (crate) of Great Northern and headed back to Beef Cap’s donga to watch Crocodile Dundee.

It’s funny, a lot of Brits wind up in Australia but (at least, before I met my wonderful Australian friends in Japan) I’d never been too fussed about the place. When I did come to plan this trip I was determined to see (at least once) the “real Australia”, by which I actually meant Mick “Crocodile” Dundee’s Australia. We flew to Darwin because it was cheapest from Bali, and we got jobs in Kakadu because it was the first offer we got…and now here we were, Azza talking us through all the Crocodile Dundee filming locations – Ubirr, Nourlangie, Gunlom…all just down the road, and I realised, we’re in it! We’re in the “real Australia”!

Photos on the donga wall – ex-girlfriends mostly, some from Azza’s ‘roo shooting days, some from his travels around Australia: pristine white, empty beaches at Great Keppel Island, Western Australia, Yamba, who knows where…

” – that’s true,” Azza said to himself in response to something Mick had said on the screen – something about how crocodiles don’t kill you at first – they hold on tight, drag you down to the bottom of the river and do a “death roll” until you drown yourself to death.

“I heard their jaw muscles are mostly for closing and it takes them ages to open their mouths again, so if they miss, you can just put a rock on them or something – ”

“They’re not gonna miss, mate.”

“If they wanna get you, they’ll get you.”

“They’re nature’s perfect predator, mate. They’ve been around since the dinosaurs.”

We drank into the early hours…

“Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” – Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway would’ve been proud of Seb as we approached his donga early the next morning to find him already up and getting ready. Out front lay well-used barbeques, threadbare armchairs, eskies (ice boxes; coolers), scattered mud crab shells, Great Northern bottles…

We helped him unload rods, nets and other junk from the boat, he borrowed Azza’s ute (he’d soon get a nice little 4WD outfit of his own) and we headed down the road to “the South”. (The three major rivers in these parts – the East Alligator, South Alligator and West (you guessed it) Alligator – are known to locals simply as the East, the South and the West and are erroneously named anyway, since some idiot mistook the crocodiles for alligators and by the time Leichhardt got here to correct the mistake, it was too late – they’d already been mapped.)

Backing Azza’s ute into the South Alligator River

“If you let go of my boat, I’ll fucking kill you!”

Down at the boat ramp. Ruth held the rope. “Whatever you do, don’t stand in the water,” said Seb, before wading in and jumping into the boat. (One of the classic traits of a true Territorian is the advising of others never to do something dangerous…and then doing it yourself on a regular basis. “Don’t stand in, or near, the water,” is a common one, often heard from fishermen/women standing knee deep in the East Alligator at Cahill’s Crossing. When a tourist or backpacker gets taken, they were a fool not to listen to the advise of the locals, but when it’s a local…well, let’s not talk about that.)

Seb launched the boat out with the tide (the Alligators are tidal rivers) then came back around for us.

Seb launches the boat out and brings it back around.

“I really can’t stress this enough: once you get in the boat, stay the fuck down! If you go in out here, you’re not coming back out!” (It turns out Seb and Azza recently had a friend fall overboard, and while her survival does prove him wrong, you can understand why he didn’t want a repeat performance.)

“On land you can outrun them, but out here in the water, you’re fucked.”

Seb knows the South like the back of his hand (though he’s also the first to admit that the river can change from season to season, even day to day, as mud and sand bars drift and shift) and negotiated the river with skill, taking the meanders wide – as most of the water does.

Blasting up the South!

“If we get caught up, don’t panic. Just remember, high tide’ll come, then we’ll come unstuck.” (More than once, staff at South Alligator have had to spend the night out on the river waiting for the morning tide.)

I sat up front, under the scorching sun, the wind blasting off the river. Schools of skipping mullet glanced across the surface in every direction in a bid to avoid the boat’s path.

The South Alligator River, Kakadu National Park, Northern Territory, Australia

“Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”

As we glided over the ever-moving surface of the river, it seemed as though the water had two consistencies – one thin and translucent, bouncing the bright blue sky back up off its surface, and the other; thicker, muddier, that seemed to move more slowly, yet somehow in perfect harmony, beneath it. A trick of the light? An optical illusion perhaps? But it was beautiful, even if it wasn’t real.

Seb pointed out a jabiru bird (after which the nearby “town” is named) nesting in the trees.

“Pretty calm out today!” Seb shouted over the boom, boom, boom as the bottom of the boat smashed up and down on the waves.

We turned up Nourlangie Creek and then we saw them.

Our first wild crocodile!

Seb slowed, stopped the boat. Where I was sitting, the boat sank two feet into the water.

We sat in silence.

Sitting ducks: Ruth and Seb scan the water for crocs.

At first they looked like logs (and vice versa) moving slowly but deliberately, the ridges of their eyes, nostrils, a row of fins along their spine and hard, scaled back above the surface, then you had a few seconds to take your photo, before the crocodile coolly, quickly slips under the water and disappears – then you don’t know where he is, and it’s time to get moving again.

“They can stay under for hours. You can’t see them, but they can see you. There are probably about 20 around this boat right now…”

Back on the South, we saw more than 15 crocodiles in the end (yes, I counted) – a couple of them over four metres long (“you can tell by the size of the head”) – and not one other sign of human existence, save the Kakadu Air scenic flight that once passed overhead.

At high-tide we turned around and headed back.

I jumped out and pulled in the boat, making sure I kept hold of the rope against the tide (or else it wouldn’t be just the crocs trying to tear me apart)

“What a way to spend a morning!”

The Yellow Water Cruise

A few weeks later, Ruth managed to wangle us a free cruise on the Yellow Water Billabong (Ngurrungurrudjba), even further up the South Alligator River and here we saw even more crocodiles (not to mention a “Jesus bird” walking on water, a green tree snake moving in precise right-angles through the jim jim branches, jabirus, ibis, purple-breasted swamp-hens, herons, darters moving like black, winged snakes, magpie geese, sea eagles perched atop barren trees, shit loads of whistling ducks, water buffalo and even wild horses silhouetted against the blood-red sun).

Ruth wangled us a free Yellow Water cruise!

Crocodile beside our boat at Ngurrungurrudjba (Yellow Water)

Saltwater crocodile on Yellow Water billabong

Native pink and white waterlilies

Because it was the sunset cruise, the crocodiles were all out on the banks, soaking up the last rays of warmth from the sun, mouths wide open, apparently to regulate their brain temperature, and we were able to get right up close to them.

In war-ravaged East Timor there are hundreds of beautiful, sandy beaches just waiting to be re-discovered, but there’s one in particular that caught my attention. Worryingly, this isn’t the first time I’ve made a journey for a funny name.

Jesus’ Backside Beach!

How to Get to Dili, East Timor?

At the time of writing the only regular flights to East Timor (or Timor-Leste) were from Bali and Darwin, plus the occasional flight to and from Singapore or Jakarta. The Bali flight, which we took, is a lot more regular and (usually) cheaper. Alternatively, you can come in overland from Kupang in West Timor (Indonesia) but you need to get all your visas sorted out in advance, which I sadly didn’t.

Arriving at Dili’s Nicolau Lobato International Airport, you’ll be swarmed by taxi drivers offering you a ride for as cheap as $5 per person, but walk to the main road and catch a mikrolet (shared taxi; you want the number 10) and it’s only 25c. (East Timor is on the US dollar.) I’ll never understand why most travellers opt for the taxi, or the $18 airport shuttle. Sure the mikrolets can get a little crowded, but if you’re not in East Timor to experience the local lifestyle and culture, what the hell are you here for?

Dili’s Colour-coded Mikrolets

The mikrolets are basically a bunch of kids with converted vans who took it upon themselves to become Dili’s (and East Timor’s) sole public transport system. There are currently 10 routes and each van is painted and numbered accordingly.

Mikrolet

Route number

Colour

01

Red

02

Dark green

03

Light green

04

Blue

05

Salmon pink

06

Brown/maroon

07

Purple

08

Grey

09

Blue (with yellow trim)

10

White/cream

A (Ridiculously) Brief History of East Timor

Back in the day (’60s and early ’70s) Portuguese Timor was a stop on the overland “hippie trail“.

25th April 1974, Portugal saw a (carnation) revolution and effectively dropped its colonies.

Political parties formed in East Timor…

…but civil war was soon to follow.

Indonesia invaded, backed and supplied with weapons by the communist-fearing USA, UK and Australia.

East Timor spent the next 24 years fighting a guerrilla war for its independence…and losing. Hundreds of thousands died. Like Sri Lanka, this is a country that was getting fucked for decades, and only saw the end of it in the 2000s. Torture, murder and disappearances were common thanks to the secret police.

East Timor’s plight only caught the international media’s attention in ’91, when an independence activist was murdered and Indonesian police were caught on camera massacring protesters. (They admitted killing 19, then 50…actually it was more like 280.)

1998. Indonesian president Suharto resigned and his successor, B. J. Habibie, gave East Timor a referendum.

Indonesian military forces and pro-Indonesian militia threatened, intimidated and terrorized East Timor into rejecting autonomy…

…yet a brave 78.5% of the East Timorese public voted, not for autonomy but for total independence.

On their way out, an Indonesian company destroyed all the infrastructure they could: roads and bridges, telephone lines and power stations, businesses, government buildings, homes. They sent tens of thousands running for the hills and even attacked the UN, forcing them to withdraw and leaving East Timor defenseless. This means no employment, no canneries, no breweries…Everything from the police force to the roads to the entire economy would have to be built from scratch.

East Timor only became a country in 2002.

NGOs and aid workers flooded in.

Trouble still flares up every few years.

The UN only withdrew again on New Year’s Eve, 2012.

If you’re interested, check out the Resistance Museum and the Chega! exhibition in Dili.

Nowadays, East Timor only gets around 1500 tourists a year, which works out to around four a day. I’m not sure how they work out who’s a “tourist”, but there was only one other whitey (non-Timorese/Indonesian-looking guy) on the plane, so the shit checks out.

Where to Stay in Dili?

The accommodation situation in East Timor is ridiculous. (As is pricing generally.) The oxymoronic East Timor Backpackers offers dorm beds for $12 and doubles for $25, and that’s probably the cheapest accommodation you’ll find in the whole of East Timor. These days it’s packed almost every night and is in desperate need of some competition.

If heading for the Backpackers’, and unless you speak Tetun, ask for “Mandarin“, which I gather is the area of town, and jump off just after “Tiger Fuel” and just before the hideous clock-tower.

Tiger Fuel used to be a good place for food but since changing ownership is only good for expensive, disgusting pizzas. However, ask at the hostel and they’ll direct you to where you can get Indian, Thai and so on nearby. There’s also a bar at the hostel, where they can prepare various rice dishes for $1-3, and a whole-in-the-wall down the road where you can split a $5 rotisserie chicken.

For a long time, East Timor has seen only NGO and aid workers, who aren’t paying for their own accommodation and therefore couldn’t give a crap what they’re charged. This has created a huge disparity between the prices of goods and services (such as accommodation) and what the local people (a huge percentage of whom are still unemployed and/or living on aid) can afford to pay. There’s no way, with the East Timorese economy in its current state, and without aid, that the people could afford to buy food at the outrageous prices in their own supermarkets.

Oh and to make matters worse, the average mum has gone and had seven or eight kids.

If you can, stay with friends, or locals, or just rock up with a few dollars and see what happens. East Timor will need to get budget-traveller-friendly, fast (not to mention sorting out the rest of its economy) if it’s going to stay afloat once the NGO and aid money dries up.

What to Do in Dili?

Not much. No infrastructure means no commercial tourist attractions. I actually love places like this!

Street art in Dili

East Timor has so many beautiful, untouched beaches, many of which could rival the best in South East Asia. There is also a series of coral reefs that run along the North coast of the island, often within swimming distance, placing diving and snorkelling at the forefront of East Timor’s diaper-clad tourism industry.

Dili is such a small city, and with such little commerce and activity, that it has to be one of the quietest, most tranquil capitals in the world. A very odd place.

Even the city centre has many peaceful, unmolested stretches of beach, where Timorese kids play football silhouetted against the sunset. Dili’s coastline stretches approximately 15 km, from the airport to the Cristo Rei statue at Cape Fatucama.

Starting at the western end, there is a row of stalls where you can eat fresh fish or chicken, local style, on the beach. We were having trouble finding them so I mimed a chicken and a fish and the universal motion for “eating” to the locals (who, to be fair, have had quite a few languages to learn – Tetun, Portuguese, Bahasa Indonesia and one or more of 20+ local dialects – without having to worry about English too). We got two fish and portions of rice wrapped and cooked in banana leaves for only $1.50 each.

Walking along the seafront, you won’t find a lot of business, but there are one or two lonely bars, such as Castaway, popular with the expats, but with Western prices to match.

What you will find are shitloads of foreign embassies, and you can’t help but think that maybe these countries have taken the piss just a little when they decided to buy up huge lots of prime, central, beachfront property that could have been used for something much more appropriate and beneficial to Dili’s citizens. Oh well.

The peaceful, picturesque port of Dili

Walking around Dili Harbour you’ll pass the Farol lighthouse and the sleepy but still operational port, which feels like a trip back in time. Centuries-old banyan trees grow amidst a very recently renovated waterfront esplanade. This area is misleadingly well kept (a security guard told me to get off the grass) while the rest of the city remains a complete dump.

A monument on Dili’s waterfront commemorates the shockingly recent, 26-year struggle for independence.

Age-old banyan trees grow along Dili’s waterfront…and all over East Timor, actually.

There are also a few fancy hotels. We went into one for advice on internet access and were greeted by a lavish welcome party intended for the arrival of the Portuguese President (or maybe it was Prime Minister), whose visit coincided, almost to the minute, with ours. The troupe of Fataluku dancers, poised to serenade us, gave me a strange look when the noticed my torn jeans, broken flipflop and bleeding foot. It turned out that this was a conference of the Community of Portuguese Language Countries. They closed the main road all the way from the airport to Area Branca (exactly the way we were walking) so we continued to run into the delegates of various Portuguese-speaking nations (as well as their security convoys and police escorts) throughout the course of the day, as they went about their business, stopped for lunch, saw the (carefully chosen) sights and whatnot. Apparently the President of Brazil had better things to do, so sent his Minister of Foreign Relations instead.

This welcome party was expecting the President (or Prime Minister) of Portugal…They got us instead.

We stopped in Lita supermarket – one of only a handful in the capital – where food shortages are commonplace and the selection of beers tells you more about the country’s foreign relations than anything else: Sagres, Bintang, Heineken and of course Tiger, the quintessential Asian lager. No Timorese beer as of yet.

We ate our tinned fish and bread on the beach and then met a fellow traveller, named Giora, as we both attempted to put our rubbish in the otherwise empty public bins. Bins are a great place to meet other foreigners, we realised, as we’re the only ones here who use them. Giora was also staying at the Backpackers’ and had quite a story of his own.

Considerably further along, you’ll come to Area Branca, a beautiful beach area, once firmly planted on the hippy trail and sure to be the centre of backpacker tourism in East Timor whenever it picks up again. There are several plastic-chair bars and “restaurants” – such as the popular favourite, Caz Bar – where you can get a can of beer or a fresh, chilled coconut for a dollar.

Stop for a cool, refreshing beer or a fresh coconut at Area Branca beach.

After Area Branca the road is bare and exposed as it winds its way to Cape Fatucama.

Everywhere you look in East Timor there are beautiful, sandy, empty beaches.

Rounding one such bend, we caught out first sight of Jesus, looking out to sea…towards Jakarta.

The Cristo Rei Jesus Statue

The Cristo Rei (Christ the King) statue is reminiscent of the much larger and infinitely better known Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) that stands over Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. (There’s also a Cristo Rei in Lisbon, Portugal.) In many ways, Dili and the landscape of East Timor is not dissimilar to that of Rio. Perhaps it was typical of the Portuguese, when scouting locations for their future cities, to choose those that already came with heavy natural fortifications.

The climb to the Jesus statue is made up of 500-ish steps and lined with a series of shrine-like grottoes that tell the story of Christ’s life, death and resurrection, including such important moments as “Jesus falls first time”, “Jesus falls second time” and my personal favourite, “Jesus falls third time”.

The 500-ish steps to Cristo Rei

I practically flew up the steps, shirtless in the sun’s heat…and quickly became the subject of much laughter from groups of locals, who insisted on having their photo taken with the pasty, half-naked white guy and his infinitely more attractive companion.

It was in a similar state that we ran into Darran and Olivier, who we’d met at the Backpackers’.

Sacrilegious?

At the top you become aware of Jesus’ epic proportions and the views of Him, Cristo Rei Beach and the surrounding landscape are incredible – the best we saw in East Timor – the green mountains folding like dog’s paws into the blue slate ocean.

Cristo Rei Beach…or as I like to call it, Jesus’ Frontside Beach

We sat perched on a dusty, Algarvesque outcrop, taking in the view, but this wasn’t exactly what I’d come for. Rumour has it that behind the Jesus statue is another, often empty beach that due to its unfortunate positioning has been coined Jesus’ Backside Beach.

The view from Cape Fatucama, East Timor

Sure enough, back down the main steps there’s another path. It’s really not the stuff of secrets and rumours at all.

Jesus’ backside, as seen from down on the beach

Jesus’ Backside Beach

As we descended this second trail, Jesus re-emerged on his hilltop and as the sun set it passed behind him and plunged us into some much appreciated shade. A local couple with motorbike gear idly leant and watched as a giant, Jesus-shaped shadow enveloped the beach below, until it had dissipated completely.

A local couple watch the sun set over Jesus’ Backside Beach

Zooming in on Jesus’ backside

We took photos of the Messiah’s backside, then rushed down to catch the last rays of the sun. Though devoid of visitors and covered in white-gold sand, like all beaches in East Timor, it could’ve used a good clean up.

Down on Jesus’ Backside Beach

While we hadn’t managed to find a snorkel for sale anywhere in Timor (no shops; there’s a business idea for you) and we’re not the sort to fork out for a diving tour, we had managed to procure and adapt a child’s pair of goggles (don’t ask) and dove in. The water was too shallow, but it was cool yet warm, blue yet clear. Though far from being East Timor’s finest, most-swimmable, snorklable beach, it was the perfect example of what is sat waiting all over the country.

The warm blue water; too shallow to snorkel, perfect for paddling.

Walking back along the winding Cape Fatucama road, rose-red sunset lingering on our right, we spotted Darran and Olivier and joined them for a beer at Caz Bar (or the equally good bar next to it – it’s difficult to tell which one you’re ordering from when you’re sat on the beach). These were two of the most insightful people I’ve met on my travels and it’s always a joy to chat with guys like that. (Call me a travel snob, but I often find that hard to reach or seldom visited places separate the most interesting travellers from the general mob.)

We found a place serving food and more beer and also got talking to a local Timorese guy who’d lived and worked as a chef in Oxford for nine years. It turned out he lived almost opposite the Backpackers’ (which we realised was about to lock its gates any minute now) and he offered to give us a lift. On the way, we had to laugh when he told us that the waterfront parks, clock-tower and so on had only been renovated a couple of days ago, for the Portuguese President’s visit.

Back at the hostel, he refused to take any money. The caretaker was just walking away from the locked gates as we arrived and had to open them again.

We said goodnight to Darran and Olivier and then ran into and got plastered with Stuart and Neil…

Despite travelling Mexico, Central America and so on, I’d somehow never actually set foot on a volcano, let alone climbed one. So, not missing out this time, I steered my course for Java, to hike Kawah Ijen by night and descend down, through thick sulphurous gases, to the beautiful turquoise crater lake and mysterious “blue fire” within.

Staring over the rim into the volcano’s crater

Getting to Kawah Ijen

Java is a hotbed of hundreds of volcanos – Semeru, Bromo, Merapi…to name a few – but the real jewel in the crown is to be found in the naturally beautiful and sparsely populated Ijen Plateau, which can be reached from either Bondowoso to the east or Banyuwangi to the west.

What I didn’t know before I arrived is that Java is the most populous island on earth! Expecting natural beauty, I was confronted instead with a string of “megacities” – home to way more rats, cockroaches and people than I cared to make acquaintance with. The road network is not equipped to handle anywhere near the volume of traffic it does and, as a result, travel on the island is unbearably slow. After 10 days on stifling buses, amidst stand-still traffic, dust, pollution and general greyness, I can say that Ijen is – for me, at least – by far the most impressive thing in Java. Of course everyone has a different experience while travelling, but most people we met on Java were trying to get out again. My advice? Rent a scooter on Bali and take the ferry over to Ketapang (Banyuwangi).

Arriving after dark at what turned out to be Banyuwangi’s Karangente bus terminal (on Jalan Brawijaya) (careful, there are at least two more major bus stations in Banyuwangi: Sri Tanjung and Ketapang), we walked to a place called Hotel Baru on Jalan MT Haryono, but you shouldn’t need to know that as it’s a shithole and if you read this, you’ll be able to do Ijen by yourself.

There’s no guaranteed way to get to Ijen by public transport, so it’s scooter or tour, I’m afraid. We booked a guide and driver through the hotel for 600,000 rupiah (£15 each for two), but you don’t actually need either. With a scooter, you can get all the way up to Ijen and, once there, you can just follow everyone else.

If you do fancy a guide though, Nizar was actually really good. Feel free to contact him directly and I’m sure he’s got a friend who’d drive you for less than 150,000.

The guide we were originally set up with told us we weren’t allowed to go down into the crater and that he wouldn’t take us down (thus, rendering him completely useless). His English was bad (because Indonesians have to learn Bahasa Indonesia as well as their local language – in this case Javanese – the level of English is noticeably poorer here than anywhere else I’ve been on this trip so far), yet he was confident and loud and kept telling us to “listen!” as though we were at fault for not being able to understand. I hate tours. I wasn’t looking forward to this at all.

We were due to set off after midnight, so decided to get a couple of hours’ sleep. Unfortunately a centipede had had the misfortune to die in our room and a swarm of ants were in the process of engulfing him and carrying him off into the bathroom at speed. The sheets were dark with sweat stains, a wet, moldy plastic bag in the bathroom made it clear no-one had even been in to check the room since the last guests, let alone clean it. A weak fan didn’t reach the bed and there was no shower (unless you want to wash yourself with the same filth-brown bucket that you use to flush the toilet).

In the early hours, when we went to meet our guide, we got our first piece of good luck. He couldn’t take us. He had another, more lucrative group and had appointed Nizar to take care of us. He said they didn’t want to share a vehicle (in other words, he wanted to get as much money out of us tourists as possible) but assured us we’d “meet there” and “go up together” (more bullshit).

We hit it off with Nizar from the beginning and the three of us, plus our trusty driver, set off into the night, first for supplies (water, snacks, cigarettes for the sulphur miners) then up an empty winding road, perfectly signposted at every turn for “Kawah Ijen”, hence why I say you’d have no trouble doing it by scooter, several of which actually out-performed the 4WD on these mountain roads. You’ll pass through an arch and the road thins out considerably, rising and falling in the cold mountain air, and eventually coming to the car park at Pos Paltuding.

It was freezing cold as we waited for the PHKA post to open at 2.30 am. Ijen (especially the night hike) has only appeared on the tourist circuit in the last few years, but due to how bloody amazing it is, there were a lot of other travellers about. There are public toilets, but there’s a charge to use the lights. Luckily I have no issues pissing in the dark…though the girl who followed me in may have had a few. Mercifully, they actually opened it at two, at which point you sign in and pay 15,000 rupiah per person. (If doing it without a guide, you can skip this – I know I would – but bear in mind that no-one would know if you fell to your death.) You have to pay considerably more if you have a camera. Twat-guide insisted we’d have to pay this, but luckily Nizar checked and phones don’t count. Digital cameras do. Either way, I’d just say you don’t have one.

What to Bring?

Torch

Warm layers

Scarf, mask or spare t-shirt

Drinking water

Snacks

Gloves, if you have them

Cigarettes for the miners

Camera

Remember to bring a scarf and soak it with water.

Climbing Kawah Ijen by Night

In pitch blackness, just the light of the head torches (which Nizar kindly lent us) to guide us, hands shoved in pockets against the bitter cold, we started up a gravelly path. It reminded me of my recent night hike up Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, only much colder. The incline was gradual at first, but soon we were working our hams and warming up as it got steeper and steeper. Nizar was great, considerately offering to stop whenever he thought we might need it. Not that we did.

The stars were overwhelming! All the constellations were there in plain sight and the curve of the milky way spread across the crisp night sky.

Soon the sheltered path opened out into exposed mountainside and we were only vaguely aware of the steep drop and the great void beside us. Here the surface – now very steep – became soft and slippery with the layers of volcanic ash. The silhouettes of Gunung Raung and another smaller peak were visible through the darkness. Merapi lay somewhere behind us, not to be confused with its more famous namesake in central Java. (“Merapi” means volcano in Javanese and Bahasa Indonesia so, as you can imagine, there are quite a few Gunung Merapis in these parts.)

We reached the sulphur weighing station, where several baskets were already waiting in the faint, misty twilight. We stopped here to rest until we got cold again, then set off on the last stretch, up to and along the crater rim. The crater! My first volcano! We couldn’t make it out in the darkness, couldn’t get perspective. I just can’t describe such a surreal feeling. I had never been in a landscape like it.

Walking along the crater rim at first light

“I just can’t imagine it!” said Ruth.

Descending into the Crater

We began our speedy descent into the crater, into pure darkness, stepping on loose rocks and gravel, slick with ash and sulphur dust.

Many people, including guides, refuse to descend into the crater.

Soon the blue flames, which had been a distant flicker, were burning and smouldering right in front of us – some of them reaching up to five metres in height.

“Blue fire” from ignited sulphuric gas. The blue flames can reach up to five metres high!

Noxious gases blew in sheets across our path and we donned our scarves. Nizar used his expert knowledge to time photographs, reading the smoke patterns and the wind and yelling “smoke’s coming!” just in time for us to shelter behind the rocks and watch all the other parties choking and spluttering.

Anybody else see a resemblance to Raziel from the Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver games?

The sulphur smells strong, gets into your chest and throat, burning and causing shortness of breath, but the best thing to do is stay calm and breathe normally, he said. If in doubt, just look at the sulphur miners, who were already at work among us, completely indifferent to it, some even smoking cigarettes amidst the smoke!

He told us this was one of only two places in the world (the other being Iceland) where you can see these blue flames, which are caused by the igniting of sulphurous gases as they emerge from the volcanic vent. They are constantly burning, but just can’t be seen by day.

We made our way, past patterns of liquid sulphur frozen into the ground, to the edge of the acid lake. Still dark, we couldn’t yet make out its size, but we cold see its turquoise colour and bubbling, steaming surface and knew better than to strip off and go for a swim.

Standing at the edge of Ijen’s highly acidic crater lake

We smelt the sulphur and felt its warmth with our hands – fresh out the earth. Many of the miners, whose fathers and grandfathers had also been miners, have started to turn their hands to carving handicrafts and souvenirs out of the sulphur, which I imagine is a more profitable profession.

We climbed back up the steep loose rocks, amongst queues of people, Nizar in a hurry to get us there in time for the sunrise.

Reaching the top, I felt a shudder as I heard my name. It was twat-guide, bunkered down in a little cave. “Stay with us,” he said. “You have plenty of time until the sunrise.”

Nizar and I looked at each other dubiously. Though I’m anything but a morning person, I’ve seen enough sunrises to know how quickly they come up once it’s light. I was going to kill this fucker if he made us miss it. We waited a few minutes, but still no sign of his group, who’d had to go down into the crater alone.

“You know what,” I said. “I think we’re going to make a move. I just don’t want to miss it.”

“You won’t miss it.”

“Better safe than sorry,” and we got going, marching quickly along the crater rim as the light began to give everything shape and perspective and a whole new sense of awesomeness. Huge channels ran across our path where lava had not so long ago cut through. Now for the first time we saw the turquoise lake below in all its glory, a square kilometre in size!

Kawah Ijen in all its glory at dawn

“What a way to spend a morning!”

A French guy fell to his death trying to get this photo.

We made it to the best spot just in time for the sunrise. (There’s no way the others made it.) The sun cast a deep red glow over the scene, turned the sky pink and brought out the deepest turquoise in the lake. Clouds hung all around us, the view rivaling those from our recent trip to San Marino, and dotted with the occasional cones of nearby neighboring volcanoes.

Catching the sunrise from Ijen

With out guide, Nizar, at the summit for sunrise

End of the road: the crater rim and wall at sunrise

Ruth’s morning view

My shadow cast across the crater at sunrise

Thick sulphurous gas streams from the volcano’s vent.

Walking the cracked crater rim amongst clouds and volcanoes

The climb down was harder than the way up. Our legs were exhausted but our sense of awe at what we’d seen – and the beautiful landscape that was continuing to unveil itself to us now by the light of day – kept our spirits high.

Even the walk down was beautiful.

Back at the sulphur weighing station, the miners were busy trading in their hard-earned sulphur for cash. We’d passed many of them on the road. These guys get up at two in the morning, dig out the sulphur from the crater floor, amidst the noxious gases, carry 70, 80 kilos of it on their shoulder, back up the steep, slippery track (a round trip of three hours) two or three times a day, and earn almost nothing for it. The bone structure of their backs and shoulders are clearly warped (though it has to be said that the exercise keeps them relatively fit and healthy). We tried to lift a load that had just been brought up and literally couldn’t. It weighed in at 96 kilos! And the little guy who brought it up! I gave him the whole pack cigarettes we’d bought.

On the drive back, Ruth and Nizar soon started to nod off to sleep. I watched at one point as Nizar dozed off and fell onto our driver, causing us to almost veer off the road. He woke abruptly to find me in hysterics in the backseat.

Back at the hotel we ate breakfast and slept…or tried to: twat-guide was banging on the door trying to get our Facebook details. When we didn’t answer, him and and his friend from the hotel sat right outside chatting. I went out bleary-eyed and told them to fuck off.